The Rookie Club: Dead Center Part 3

Emily wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "You get all that defensive training, you know? I wasn't even going to be a police officer and I got it. And I paid attention. I thought it was important." She shivered, some memory stirring her.

Jamie winced, wished she could make this all go away.

"But it didn't help," she whispered. "I didn't do any of the things we learned. I couldn't even think. I just shut down." She looked up, tracks of tears like stripes on her face. "I just laid there and let him do it."

Jamie felt her own tears well and fought them back. "It's not your fault, Emily. Whatever happens, you cannot blame yourself for this." Jamie searched for something more to say but came up empty.

Emily straightened her back. "Let's get this over with."

Jamie stood. "You're sure?"

"Positive. I just want it over."

Jamie slowly began the process. "Let's start with his hands. You think he wasn't wearing gloves, so where do you remember his hands?"

"He touched my-" She caught her lip in her teeth. "My neck. He grabbed it."

Using clear tape on the skin, Maxi tried to lift prints off of her neck. The process took ten minutes and in the end, Maxi shook her head. No prints. They printed her hands, arms, and inner thighs with the same result.

"Okay, Emily. The last thing we have to do is talk about the s.e.xual a.s.sault. Did he put his p.e.n.i.s in your mouth?"

"No." Emily cupped her face and started to sob. "Thank G.o.d, no."

They'd already taken a v.a.g.i.n.al swab, so the physical collection was done. "I think we're ready for that c.o.ke now."

"I'll go," Maxi said.

"Thanks." Jamie pulled money from her pocket and offered it to Maxi, but she waved it away.

"You want diet or regular?"

"Regular," Emily said.

"You?" she asked Jamie.

"Regular's perfect."

Maxi left and Emily turned to Jamie. The tears had momentarily subsided when Emily said, "G.o.d, I wish I was just regular again."

Jamie exhaled, the knot in her gut heavier than ever. "Me, too, Emily. Me, too."

When Maxi returned, they drank their c.o.kes while Maxi photographed Emily using a highly-sensitive film designed to pick up any marks that were emerging on the skin. Aside from the obvious injuries, Emily had a series of bruises that had yet to fully form and a jagged mark inside her thigh that Jamie suspected may have been caused by the knife during their struggle.

"We're done with the physical evidence. I just need to ask about anything he might have said."

Emily's mouth dropped open. "G.o.d, I almost forgot." She paused and the weight of Emily's stare felt like a physical burden.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He said to tell the inspector h.e.l.lo."

Chapter 6.

Jamie arrived at the station at 1:10 a.m. The a.s.sistant district attorney, Chip Washington, was seated in an interview room, drinking bottled water. Jamie set her things down, poured a cup of thick, overcooked coffee, and brought it to the table.

Washington wore navy sweatpants and a gray Cal Berkeley sweatshirt along with his dress shoes. "Nice outfit."

He glanced at his feet. "They were the closest to the door when the phone rang."

"Sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be."

"Any word on what CSU found at Marchek's?" she asked, afraid of the answer.

"No hood, no blood. They're doing a sweep for fibers, but you've been in his house."

"He's clean."

Washington raised a brow. "That's an understatement. He's obsessive."

Jamie dropped her head. "Christ."

"They did find a single blond hair on a jacket in the closet," Washington said.

She looked up. "Emily Osbourne is blond."

Washington nodded. "I sent someone to General Hospital to pick up her sample." He glanced at his watch. "That was an hour ago. They promised to run it ASAP and call me." He patted his cell phone.

"You want to wait for the call?"

Washington shook his head. "Let's bring him in."

"Try to shake something loose? I did this earlier tonight and it didn't get the reaction I'd hoped for."

"Maybe we can nail him now. He didn't have long to clean himself up."

"I hope you're right." Jamie buzzed the guards to bring Marchek in. The process took him out of jail custody and into hers. It looked good for the record, that they'd treated him respectfully. She made a note about offering him something to drink. That looked good, too. Somehow, though, she always managed to forget to actually do it.

Though the interview room was barely large enough to fit a table and four chairs, Marchek would come here. The room they'd used before was bigger, more industrial. This had more of a conference room feel and she hoped a new venue might make Marchek more agreeable. She needed every little edge.

She wanted him to think he was about to leave. The closer to freedom he felt, the more apt she was to get something out of him. This was just a little chat between old friends.

Marchek arrived a few minutes later. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, shoes without socks. They'd dragged him from home without any notice.

She thanked the officers for bringing him over and motioned Marchek to a chair.

"Please, Michael."

"Don't call me that," he said. The words came out a long, low hiss like a tire losing air.

Marchek preferred people use his surname. Or Mike. Never Michael. In the courtroom at his last trial, he literally flinched at the sound of his full name. His lawyer said it was what his father called him when he was about to get a beating, so the D.A.'s office used it as much as they could during his trial. The effect was that he appeared twitchy and strange to the jury. A point for the good guys.

She'd never asked why he didn't want to be called Michael. Something about his early home life, she suspected. Perhaps that was why she always used it. Maybe his mother was tough on him. Maybe his father was tough on her. Early in her career, Jamie had bucked the idea of the stereotypes. Bad home life, early exposure to violence-particularly on the part of the father-rapists were always tagged with the same psychological markers. Jamie had met rapists who had strong parents with successful marriages and successful careers. She'd met some that were like a list of every stereotype in the book. Truth was, more fit the stereotypes than didn't. Over the years, she found herself less interested in how they'd grown up and more focused on putting them away.

Aside from his first name, the other thing Michael hated was slovenliness. He was careful about his appearance. His curly dark hair covered him. It spilled out under the cuffs of his jacket and down the backs of his hands. The hair on his head was kept short. A number four cut if she were guessing. He was normally cleanly shaven but now, his jaw was covered in a dark shadow that suggested he could grow a beard in a few days. She wondered if the hair bothered him. He seemed like someone who might shave himself from head to toe to be rid of it. His eyes were dark. In certain light, she'd seen green in them. But usually, like now, they looked flat and brown. He narrowed them, scanned the room.

He wore bleached undershirts and work pants. At the moment, though, his carefully kept appearance was bedraggled. His shirt was dirty and untucked, his pants barely b.u.t.toned. He wasn't happy.

His home was like a technology-manufacturing clean room. The floors were hardwood. A small black tray at the door held his work shoes. In the bottom was a half inch of liquid bleach, which made the whole place stink. She had wondered how he slept with the smell. Surely, it couldn't be good for him. But it hadn't killed him yet. Unfortunately.

Marchek had few material possessions. No books or music, no TV, which seemed odd for a guy who worked in a video store. A small hobby bench sat in the center of the living room. From what she had seen, he built mostly small planes. She'd seen one floater plane, too.

In the bedroom closet, his clothes were folded and stacked on two shelves. A half-dozen pairs of pants and maybe ten shirts. Three were collared ones with the logo of the video store, Video Mania. They had a stack of their own. The others were white undershirts. Hanes. Medium. Underwear and socks shared a separate shelf. He owned only two coats-one of heavy wool that looked like it had come from an army surplus store and the light brown denim Carhartt work jacket he wore now. No shorts, no bathing suit, no robe. Not even pajamas. Marchek didn't seem to believe in surplus.

"This won't take long," she told him.

"Then I leave."

It wasn't a question, so she didn't answer it.

Marchek touched nothing. Instead, he used a foot to kick the chair out then turned to sit. Held his hands in his lap. He hadn't touched anything. He was a neat freak and the tendency not to touch anything could be part of that. But she also thought he was wary of leaving prints. Criminals tended to create wonderfully elaborate conspiracy theories about how police entrapped them. Even the guilty ones.

"It's amazing what science has done for forensics," Washington said. "Tests can show that two pieces of duct tape came from the same plant and how close in time. We can actually prove that two samples came from the same roll even if they're not successive pieces."

She watched Marchek. A corner of his mouth turned up. A smile. She paused, let the information sink in a bit.

He lifted a hand, focused on his thumb. Ran a finger across it like he was petting a tiny animal.

"You're in trouble, Michael."

One cheek bounced in and out like he was chewing on it.

She continued. "This will be three strikes. No chance of parole next time."

He ran his finger along the thumb more slowly as though considering an offer. Something about the motion was childlike.

She felt close to something, considered her options.

"It'll be easier if you cooperate with the investigation," Washington added.

Marchek glanced at Washington. He turned his gaze to Jamie. "I've been reading up on serial rapists."

Washington raised a brow.

Jamie was silent.

He nodded. "Since you seem to think I am one, I thought I'd brush up on how they work. All sorts of different ones, aren't there?"

She didn't respond.

Washington's phone buzzed on his hip and he left the room to answer it.

The motion didn't seem to disturb Marchek. He rubbed his finger more slowly. "I've been reading about what they do to their victims. Modus operandi and signatures. Truly, you have an intriguing job, Inspector." He drew out her t.i.tle.

"What kinds of things did you read about?" she asked.

Marchek smiled. Not the tight, fake smile, but a real one. Joy. He was genuinely happy.

Something rolled in her stomach.

The smile grew a little. He knew he was getting to her. She kept silent.

"I read about men who bite and then cut pieces of skin from their victims," Marchek went on. "And, of course, the ones who take things-mementos."

"What kind are you?"

Marchek's smile vanished. His eyes stayed flat. He was playing. "Silly inspector. I've already explained I have nothing to do with any of this."

Washington returned to the room, frowning.

She nodded. "Okay. If you were a rapist, Michael..."

"What type would I be?"

She nodded.

His finger moved more quickly across the knuckle. A smooth, repet.i.tive motion-up, back, up, back. Then it stopped. He rested his hands in his lap. "The difference between your rapists and me is that they consider this an art." He frowned. "You and I, we see it as an atrocity, a crime." He focused on the far wall. "If I were a rapist, which, of course, I'm not, I'd have to be one of those people who saw it as art."

"And if you saw it as art?"

He shrugged.

Jamie watched his expression. His eyes neither widened nor narrowed; his lips remained pa.s.sive in a flat line. "It would be like one of your little models, Michael?"

His gaze shifted back to her. Nonplussed. Almost bored. "If there's nothing else we need to discuss, Inspector, I really should be going. I work early tomorrow."

"I'm going to catch you, Marchek."

"You're making a mistake," he whispered. His shoulders shifted up, his spine straightened. He focused on her.

She held his gaze. "I don't make mistakes."